Jéhan had returned to Kérnak.
If only he could have seen the young Count first, if only there had been time to prove that repentance had come in time to save his honour!
And now she would believe in neither the one nor the other.
He groaned at the thought, passing a trembling hand across his forehead. Oh! he must prove himself—must prove himself, even if he died in doing it.
"Cécile, Cécile, Cécile."
The breeze overhead chanted the name again and again, now sadly, now sweetly, alluringly, distractingly.
"Cécile, Cécile, Cécile."
His heart echoed the cry, going out with wild longing to her who had won it and transformed it at one magic touch.
"Slit me! if it's not Morry himself. You sly dog! What demned mischief have you been up to now, my friend, leaving Steenie and me to cool our heels in that old rat-trap of yours?"
Jack Denningham's voice broke in sharply on a day-dream of love. It was no more welcome interruption than the sight of my lord himself, cool, suave, smiling, with a hearty clap on the shoulder to add to his upbraiding words of welcome.